What He Doesn't Know
by angelthefish
Summary: LJ sickdean Hurt/Comfort Meme request: Post-hell!Dean suffers from night terrors.


Disclaimer: Not mine. Not now, not ever sadly.

Warnings: Betaed by my anal personality. Minor language. Sam.

For the Livejournal sickdean hurt/comfort meme, as requested by sickdean_mod: Post-hell!Dean suffers from night terrors.

* * *

It was the third night in a row that Sam had been woken up around two by a screaming Dean. The problem was that Dean wasn't aware of what was happening, and Sam has never been able to wake him. He'd googled it after Dean had finally settled the night before - a process that took an hour and Sam putting the hoodie he'd been wearing all day on Dean when his older brother started shivering hard enough to Magic Finger the bed without the quarters. He'd figured out later that it was probably the familiar smell of the clothing that had soothed Dean back into sleep.

His internet search had turned up the term 'night terror', which happened mostly in kids but could often be seen in post-trauma victims. Sam figured that coming back from Hell was the ultimate post-traumatic experience. He also assumed that's what Dean was dreaming about as he shouted Sam's name over and over until he was hoarse.

An angry knock at the motel room door tore Sam's attention away from trying to quiet Dean.

"What?" Sam asked as he opened the door. He wasn't in the mood for this, especially not with Dean still in the midst of screaming and thrashing on the bed.

"You wanna shut your little boyfriend up or what?" The man outside was balding and sporting quite the beer belly. Not to mention the fact that he smelled like a cheap brewery and was missing quite a few teeth.

Sam considered making the same excuses he'd made the night before and the night before that - Dean had been on a tour of duty in Iraq, and he'd just gotten home. Most people were sympathetic to that and let them be. But this guy... Sam wasn't going to waste his breath. Instead, he pulled back his fist and decked the asshole right in the nose.

"What the fuck?!" The hillbilly's shout was muffled by both the hands he was holding over his bleeding and probably broken nose. He only took that moment to recover before he dove at Sam, catching the taller Winchester in the legs and taking him to the ground.

They struggled on the grimy motel carpet for several minutes, one or the other getting a shot in while they shouted obscenities at each other ranging from lifestyle choices to the size of the other man's dick.

Abruptly, the report of a gun shot and bits of ceiling raining down around them stopped them in mid-punch. Dean was leaning against the wall with the weapons bag open at his feet. He had a gun in one hand, a crazy sharp dagger in the other, and a wild-eyed look that screamed 'the lights are on but nobody's really home'.

"Whoa!" Sam kicked the heavier man off to the side and jumped to his feet. He cautiously approached Dean, holding both hands out to show that he was unarmed. "Dean? You with me?"

"Sam!" Dean shouted, staring at the spot on the floor where Sam had been laying a moment before. "Sammy!"

"I'm right here, Dean. Do you hear me?" Sam reached out to take the gun, but Dean flinched away, almost letting off another shot.

"Sammy!" Dean cried again, a heart-breaking sound of loss and desperation.

"Hey, hey," Sam said softly as he slowly unzipped the sweatshirt he'd worn to bed. He carefully pulled it off and draped it over Dean's shoulders.

The older Winchester flinched, but then melted into the material and its warmth. "Sam?" Dean whispered the name as if he was afraid of not being answered.

"I'm here," Sam assured, though he was certain that Dean still wasn't aware that he was really standing there in his socks and flannel pajama pants. Dean had made fun of him for the pants a few days ago, but it was cold in Nebraska in November.

"What the hell's wrong with him?" Hillbilly was halfway out the door, but had turned to ask the dumbest question he apparently couldn't go without having answered.

Sam turned to give the guy his best withering, deadly glare. He didn't dare speak as he watched the man leave the room and turn toward his own room - he didn't want to startle Dean again. Then, he turned his attention back to Dean and gently pulled the gun and knife from Dean's now slack hands. He'd just deposited them on the TV stand when Dean suddenly dropped, limp and sleeping again.

Sam got him back into bed and checked him over for injury from getting out of bed or the fall or whatever Dean had done to himself in between before heading into the bathroom to tend to his own cuts and bruises from the fight.

The next morning, Dean rolled over and yawned as he glanced at the clock. Nine hours of shut eye and he was still freaking exhausted. Dammit.

"Sam, why am I wearing your sweatshirt again?" he asked as he sat up and tugged at the garment in question. "Yo, Sammy? Wake up!" he called as he picked up a dirty sock and threw it at Sam's face.

The younger brother gagged and flung the stinky material back at Dean. "What the hell man? I was sleeping."

"We need coff... What happened to your face?" Dean was beside him in a flash, checking out each cut and bruise.

Sam glanced away from a moment, internally debating what he should say. "Some jackass was being rowdy outside last night. I told him to get lost and he jumped me."

"Why didn't you wake me?" Dean asked, silently wondering how he himself hadn't woken up.

"You were out, man," Sam replied. "Anyway, I kicked his ass and he took off. I'm fine and I'm going to go get some coffee."

Dean nodded, mulling over the story as Sam pulled on his shoes and headed for the door. He was almost outside when he heard Dean shout, "Sam? What happened the ceiling?"

~The End


End file.
